


One Starry Night

by berlitzschen



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: AU, Angst, Hunting, I'm Sorry, M/M, Morty is a goat, Nature, Peril, Pre-Relationship, Predator/Prey, Rick is a wolf, Romance, Secret Relationship, and goat penis, animal husbandry, eventual wolf penis, everybody is a fucking animal ok, seriously i kind of know my shit a little bit not really, those aren't their names though, whole new level of sin right here, y'all asked for this i hope you like it, yeah the goat and the wolf are gonna fuck and it's gonna be as accurate as it can be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-11-29 18:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlitzschen/pseuds/berlitzschen
Summary: In Earth dimension L-636, Rick Sanchez is a wolf, and Morty Smith is a goat. Of course, those aren't their names, as animals obviously evolved to have different naming customs than Earth humans.Cowslip - Morty Smith of dimension L-636, so named by his mother after a yellow flowering plant.Thistle - Rick Sanchez of dimension L-636 A lone wolf.An AU of a movie and a book entitled One Stormy Night, in which a wolf and a goat royally fuck up the status quo by being gay as hell. This story is loosely based on scenes from the movie. While that movie was fairly friendly, with some mild peril, I straight up murder someone chapter one.





	1. Some nights, rain is sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> Unnamed Nanny Goat - Beth Smith of dimension L-636.
> 
> Billy - A term for an adult male goat.
> 
> Nanny - A term for an adult female goat.
> 
> Kid - A term for a young goat of either sex.

Some nights, rain is sweet. It falls gently from the sky, caresses the hills, and nourishes the land with its touch. And then the next morning all the plants, still glistening from the deluge, exude a scent like milk and honey. It tickles the noses of the foals, the lambs, and the kids, who are all too young to know the worth of such a delicious scent. But their mothers do, the dams, the ewes, and nannies have been soaked by enough rains, and suffered through enough winters to appreciate the way rain marinates into dew by the golden light of the morning sun. How it teases out flavor from each blade of grass and stalk of leafy plant. 

The other nannies stayed around the valley under the shadow of a mountain with the kids tucked into their sides, munching away at the same old field they’d known their whole lives. This nanny wasn’t going to let an early morning shower go to waste like that. And so, it was with great delight that this mother goat brought out her newest kid up an eastern facing slope, far away from the grazing mouths of the rest of the herd. She wanted her son, who she named Cowslip, after her most favorite flowering plant, to be able to taste grass untrodden under the hooves of other goats. 

It was an easy climb, the mid-summer heat not yet in full-force, but it was still pleasant to her old muscles. She walked a few strides behind her son. His fawn brown coat shining almost honey-like under the sun. Even the frostings of white along the edge of his tail and ears took on a luminescent quality. She was proud to have birthed a son with such a gorgeous coat, even if he were a bit timid to be a billy. But perhaps after next year, when he became a yearling, and his horns started to show, he would grow into his confidence. After all, he’d managed to escape having her golden fleece, one which frequently caused her issue in the summer months out on the open pastures. 

She’d learned early on that her best bet was to hang around fields of wheat, but unfortunately most of those were often across the long strips of gray stone the growling beasts thundered across. More than a dozen encounters with humans, hunting dogs, and wolves in her life refined her to a pinnacle of fitness. Her eyes ever trained, nose ever wiggling, hooves always stable even on the steepest inclines. There were scars along her legs from tumbles she’d taken during her more reckless youth, and one particularly nasty mark along her right shoulder blade, from the fangs of an overeager young wolf who had broken rank and lunged too early at her. She dug her horns into his soft throat for his troubles, a fairly expensive lesson for him. The pack broke off to mourn their whelp as she escaped up a cliffside and hid out in a niche and licked her wounds. 

But her son shouldn’t have to suffer such trials. He was blessed with the coat of deer, and the fleet-footedness of a mountain goat. He could escape his enemies in the undergrowth of the forests, or blend in with the bedding of creeks. Disguise his scent under the trickle of fresh rain and raspberry bushes. And though he would be unable to hide when winter came, he could still hop over the snow faster than the idiot wolves could carry their meat-gorged bodies across the blanket of white. 

Yes, she thought with pride, her son would be very lucky in his life. 

Now on the top of the hillside, she could see over the whole valley on all sides, until it disappeared into the black forests of the north, stretching across the mountains which cradled the entire valley like a grave. The lands to the south were not so bad, but all the rivers abruptly dried out or snaked off to the east, where no goat she had ever heard of ventured to and returned. The east was where the wheat fields spanned, nestled in a gorge straddled on all sides by the scent of man and their roaring stone beasts. What lay beyond the fields of wheat, she knew nothing of. 

But to the west and the North, she’d heard only tales of death and mangle. Up in the north, the black forest terminated once it got high enough in the mountains, all trees and plant life strangled out of existence past the timberline from the chilly airs which still seemed to hang around even during the sweltering heat of summer. It always clashed with the warm breezes sneaking in from the South, mingling into a thick fog that sometimes crept over the whole valley. 

And the West was wolf territory. They needed the dense cover of the black forest, whose canopy was so thick and overgrown, not even men from their flying beasts could spy a creature flitting in the darkness. Out in the vast valley, interrupted only by occasional thickets, and a few sparse outcroppings of trees, the wolves were easily spotted by even the least attentive of nannies. The herd could cover half the valley in a day’s time, and the wolf would be too frustrated to continue its pursuits. The deer were easier to take down, after exhausting them for only a few hours in the winding underbrush, where a mouthful of fangs could pop up at any moment. 

The mother was confident enough in her age and power to venture away from the herd this morning, to give her dear son a taste of the freshest grass the valley could offer. It was for this reason, that as she grazed and watched her son pick round green clovers for the far tangier red ones, that she didn’t notice the moment long, ravenous shadows snaked out from the forest. 

Mornings after rain were always blissful. They were cool and clear, the lightning from the previous night never failing to shock and burn contaminants out of the air. Gone was the oppressive humidity that always amassed during the insufferable days before a storm. Not even a faint whiff of a breeze stirred the leaves high upon the tree tops in the morning after a rain. 

This was why, filled with love watching her kid jump excitedly over an overturned tree, she was unable to notice the scent of decay slipping up the hillside, encircling her like an omen. The bitter cry of a crow pulled her thoughts away from her son. The air was still and scentless. She stared over the sloping horizon of the hill, unable to see more than a hundred dashes in any one direction. But as she waited, and flicked her ears, skilled in differentiating between the sound of a field mouse scuttling about, with that of the unmistakable sound of paw pads and worn nails, moving in multiple pairs of two, across lands, somehow in tandem, as if connected to a singular beast. 

The nanny felt, rather than saw or heard, the first of the beasts. The monster was off to her left flank, and she suspected the rest of them be circling in her opposite end, attempting to use the one to funnel her to her doom. Well, the she-goat was unimpressed. She stood over her kid and hushed him, and hoped his anxious nature would carry him to the safety of the herd. 

She nuzzled his dipped ear, knowing it may very well be her last time to ever do so, and whispered to him: “My little one, you know I love you so, yes you know it to be true.” He nodded back enthusiastically, but did not speak, for his voice was always quivering, and he did not wish to interrupt his mother when she spoke lullabies to him. “We’re going to play a game now, my little one.”

“W-w-what kind of game, Mama?” Cowslip bleated, knees shaking. 

“The most important game of all, my little one. The one I’ve told you of many a time. You’re going to flee, now, my little one. Can you do that for your mama?” Cowslip gave a little kick with his front hoof. “Flee.” She suddenly nudged him forward, angling him down along the northeastern stretch of the slope. “Flee all the way back home. And do not stop. You know you mustn’t ever stop fleeing until you reach home, little one.” 

“Y-Yes, Mama,”Cowslip leaned his head back against his mother’s warm chin. “B-but, Mama. You’ll be right behind me, r-right? Mama?” 

“Yes, my little one. I’ll be right behind you. But you can’t look back, that’s one of the rules. Only look forward forever, my little one. Nothing behind you is ever worth holding onto. I love you, my little one.” With one final shove of her head, she gave her son his final push. “Now, flee!” She commanded. 

Cowslip ran as fast as his young legs could carry him. He was low to the ground, and still earthy like a mountainside. He would be okay. She watched as the white tip of his tail disappeared over the slope of the hill. Stomping a hoof into the ground, she took one last mouthful of dew-dripping grass, and chewed thankfully. She bowed her head and as the first wolf surfaced off to her left, and she heard the others snarling behind her, she gave one good stomp and launched her entire body behind her two horns at the wolf. 

The wolf dodged, and the others circled around her, snapping at her heels, but none of them daring to get too close too soon. If she were near a cliffside, she could ascend above their heads and laugh at their pitiful, hungry growls beneath her. But in the open like this, they had the speed advantage. She was only two horns, four hooves, and years of fire. 

She faked right and pivoted a full one-eighty on a wolf who had come up too quickly behind her, hoping to sink their teeth into her haunch. Instead, she bared down with all her weight, and speared her horns straight into the snapping face. She felt hot blood run into her fur, but no pain, and as she wrenched back, even through the terrible yelp from the wolf, a mangled mass of what was once an eye splattered to the ground in a heap of blood and gouged muscle. The wolf collapsed, howling in pain, and rubbing the empty socket, where flies already buzzed around in wonder. 

The other wolves stilled for a moment, and then descended on her in a fury of fangs and claws, tearing apart her golden skin and spilling the red insides out onto the earth, staining the grass still smelling like milk and honey.


	2. Though he escaped, he lost his home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A goat and a wolf bond under the stars, not knowing what the other is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, Thistle (Rick) shows up!!

Though he escaped, he lost his home. No one spoke to him when he returned to the safety of the herd. He asked for his mother, for two days, and not a single billy or nanny would look him in the eye. He heard nannies whispering amongst themselves. They spoke in hushed tones about what a foolish nanny his mother was.

 _‘Giving her life for a kid like that,’_ one snorted.

Another bleated, _‘I told her she should have let him die. He doesn’t have the strength to make it. She should have spent her time getting fat so she could birth a better kid next year.’_

 _‘He’ll be dead before winter,’_ foretold another.

Their words made little sense to him. His mind was consumed with the search for his mother, and his stomach was empty, yearning for mother’s comforting milk. Too sick with worry to handle grass, Cowslip endeavored to steal milk from a sleeping nanny. She woke up startled and kicked him in the head for his efforts. No nanny would waste their milk on a kid they thought couldn’t make winter.

Pestering the billies was dangerous. They charged at him with all they had, despite his age. He narrowly avoided beneath pummeled with horns by slipping down a cliffside so slim only his small hooves could traverse it. 

He slunk around the grazing grounds the herd typically occupied, asking the other kids—who were much more pleasant to him—if they had seen his mother. Eventually, an irritable adolescent told him he should go looking for her. He ambled across the valley on the third day and made it to the overturned log before the sun had even reached its peak. 

His mother wasn’t there and neither was her scent. Instead, he found a few bones with teeth marks in them, but not a whole skeleton. Vultures had picked it clean. There weren’t even maggots wriggling in the grass. 

Cowslip sat with the remains until the sun disappeared over the mountains and the cloak of night enveloped the sky. Wind stirred leaves and blades of grass but could not touch his mother. On this hill, her body would remain, despite whatever parts of her were swallowed and dragged away elsewhere. The earth was her grave and after the winter came and the next spring of grasses flourished, she would disappear into the soil. 

After that, Cowslip would be all that was left of her.

And that year passed, in the way that years do. The seasons fading in and out of wonder, stealing life, and giving it, too. Autumn came, in all its gorgeous colors, but only kept its splendor for a few weeks, before the gold and sunset red plumage dulled into earthy browns and withered from the trees. Nipping at its heels, winter chased and captured the land a few weeks earlier this year. For five months straight, the valley was covered in a thick sheet of snow, and the tops of the creeks froze over. Paying close attention to the yearlings, who had already gone through a winter, Cowslip learned how to push his nose through snow and unearth frozen weeds; that the sunny side of the hill yielded the tastier grasses; how to strip brambles of their leaves and avoid the thorns; how to use his teeth to pry bark off trees; and the delicate task of puncturing the frozen edge of a stream and lapping at the icy water flowing beneath. 

Without his mother, he learned all these things on his own.

By now, the worst heat of the summer was finally over. The season began its blessed transition into autumn, where the virtues of summer still blossomed, but the easier temperatures of the cooler season gave all of the valley’s animals a reprieve. 

_Tonight is a special night,_ Cowslip thought, looking up at the skies without a single cloud marring its blue expanse.

In this part of the world, the end of summer marked the last days where the constellations of the nanny, the billy, and the kid could be clearly seen until the winter skies heralding the ravenous wolf constellations haunted them until the spring thaw. 

Winter was harsh to all animals, from the valley, through the woods, over the mountains, and beyond the horizon. But Cowslip had handled his first winter all on his own. And tonight, he was going to do something remarkable, in memory of his mother. 

While the elder nannies would gather the kids along a hillside and retell the story of Aster the loving nanny, Snapdragon the fearless billy, and Larkspur the wild kid, Cowslip would be on the other side of the valley. He was not interested in listening to their stories, unable to glimpse the stars properly over the trees stretching high into the sky. But Cowslip had found a way. 

To the south, the valley fractioned into jagged crags that reached into the sky and pulled the clouds down. Often times, only their peaks were unobscured by the dense fog. But if you manage to climb high enough, you can get past the clouds, and see the entire sky unobstructed by the treetops. 

Cowslip snuck away from the herd while they buried their noses in the weeds. The trek to the crags was not like that of the one he took a year ago. He made it in no time at all. Youthful exuberance making his body light and his toes eager. 

He stood at the foot of the mountain. It was steep, at least on this side, but nothing a young goat couldn’t handle. Plenty of jagged edges and overgrown vegetation curled over its side. A few bare patches sprawled out here and there, and he could see way up there were shelves extending out. Certainly wide enough for Cowslip. 

As he ascended, so too did another animal begin their journey up the same mountain. 

—

Thistle had just about gotten through his eighth summer—an impression feat for a wild wolf. In his long life, he’d been shot at four times, caught in an iron trap, and escaped a forest fire. In his fourth winter, he fell through a frozen lake and kept himself from freezing to death by crawling inside the corpse of a diseased elk. His countershaded gray pelt was sullied with dried blood and the crows bothered him for a full week after, but at least he hadn’t perished. 

He hadn’t been back to this part of the land since two springs ago. But he’d wandered through enough of the world beyond the south, and he was ready to return to a place that was more or less quiet. For some reason, his feet always dragged him back here. 

He was born in a patch of brambles and thistles in an unremarkable thicket in the south, where the trees thinned and the animals were strange. Right from the start, his toils began. His mother, whose mate had been taken by his own rotting skin after a buck punctured his flank, survived by digging prairie pups out of their holes and knocking bird eggs from their nests, gave birth to him and three stillborns. 

Thistle’s first meal was his mother’s milk, the only time it had ever been thick and plenty after she ate his siblings. 

His early days of darkness and soundlessness were spent tucked into that dry, harsh thicket, his scent buried by leaves and earth, waiting for the smell of his mother to return. It wasn’t long after his eyes and ears opened, and he learned to walk, that they were on the move. Most of the time, his mother carried him in her mouth and crossed long stretches of terrain each day. 

There was a time where they found a path of water deeper than any brook they’d simply walked through. His mother didn’t even attempt to see how deep it was. At Thistle’s age, he was too big to be carried by her sore jaws and her body was too weary to toil in a river moving as quickly as that one. They followed it for a solid day in a half of walking, though it was at the pace of a pup and a hungry mother. Eventually, they found a place where stones interrupted the surface of the water and the roar died down to a gentle trickle. 

After that, they wandered onto a road that was hot and flat, where the air smelled strange, where his mother suddenly stopped, turned, and let out a vicious growl. Thistle pretended the three years that followed never happened. 

When he escaped, he was wracked with aches not of hunger, but of the soul. He followed them far, not knowing where he was going. His legs never failed him, though. It seemed his paws knew something his mind didn’t. On a sweltering night, he found himself on the same hot flat of land, and it felt like he could start his life back from where it stopped two years ago.

And that’s what he did. 

He traveled the entire path back home, going over the same rocks he and his mother had, following the river the same distance, and running across the same prairies. He thought that when he found his birth den—a pitiful excuse for a den, really, but it was _his_ den—that the ache would dissipate and contentment and warmth would fill his soul, just like all those nights he spent snuggled under his mother’s paws. 

But he found no such peace. He wandered the lands, changing direction every time he scented another wolf. He hoped his wanders would eradicate the feeling plaguing his entire being. Not even hunger cramps rivaled the pain. He wasn’t aimless, but he never knew where he was going. He wasn’t without a place to sleep or fest, but he was without a home. He never stayed in one place too long, lest the trees start to howl insults at him. Though knew where he was, he was still lost.  
Returning to these lands once again, he decided he wanted to slink around the crags for a while. The chance of splitting his paw open didn’t do much to discourage him. Though there were some summits he refused to attempt. He knew his limits. His paws were much too big to try stuffing into cracks and fissures. 

As he ascended, he noticed he could detect a whiff of anything. Even his own scent was barely perceptible. The air was still and thick, hard for scents to travel. It kept the clouds tight around the crags, but it wasn’t an issue for Thistle. He only hoped the northern winds returned soon. If they did, he might be able to keep his scent hidden from the pack to the west.

By the time he reached the top, he was panting lightly, and a few of lesser used muscles were burning and protesting. He acquiesced to their complaints.

He found a platform that hung far of the edge of the rest of the crags. It faced the east, which the dark of night had emerged from long ago. It swallowed up the expanse of the sky and allowed the stars above to shine. His platform was perfect. It enclosed him in fog on all sides except the one he faced as he numbered the stars—a task he had once been told impossible. He let his paw dangle off the edge, aware of his height but unconcerned by it. 

On the opposite side of the crag, Cowslip navigated his way through the dense clouds only by way of his feet. He remembered where the tallest part of the crag was. It was a bit risky to get to, requiring daring jumps between slabs of rock with steep, unforgiving drops. But it was the only place his short little body could poke out about the cloud cover. 

Cowslip hopped on each column, the jump having been made easier by his growth since his last attempt. But he overshot the second to last platform. His front hooves slid off the edge and he frantically thrashed, hoping he could propel his body backward enough to give him some holding. Snagging on a crevice, his dewclaws managed to hold his weight just enough to give him time to scramble back onto the safety of the ledge. 

He stamped each of his cloven hooves once, checking to make sure they were all there. Satisfied, he took the last leap and settled on the platform. The fog was faint around the slabs and terminated completely at the final one. But everywhere else it was thick and impenetrable. If he hadn’t been the one to climb it himself, he could’ve sworn there wasn’t a whole mountain beneath his hooves. 

And it didn’t matter whether there was or not. He could see all the stars, finally, and tucked beneath their splendor, he felt both infinitesimal and untouchable. Appreciating the brevity that his mother had given him, to roam the world, to feel pain and loss, to gaze up at the stars. Alone. It was the first time in his life that he’d felt alone. A strange contradiction it truly was, to be so close to the stars that he could leap into their inky resting grounds if he tried, yet feel as though the plunge would last forever. 

His mother had given him this life, his herd thought he wasn’t worth it, and he was uncertain if there would ever a place he could call home. 

And then, through the fog, drifted a disembodied voice.

“Is someone there?” The voice asked. It was rough from the years whetting but confident.

 _Must be a dispersal male,_ Cowslip thought. 

“Y-Yes,” Cowslip cringed at the way his voice always quavered, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know anybody else could climb the crags. I just came to look at the stars.”  
The voice that answered Thistle back was young and timid. 

_Probably last summer’s pup,_ decided Thistle.

He let out a little laugh, eased it wasn’t something he would have to worry about. “It is the best place for it. And the sky is uncommonly clear tonight.”

“Y-Yeah. I thought the same thing this morning. T-T-That’s why I snuck off tonight.”

“You’re pretty crafty to be climbing a crag all by yourself.”

Cowslip’s ears and cheeks warmed at the compliment. “O-Oh, well, t-t-thank you. No one’s ever called me crafty before. But hey, what about you? You must be really strong if you managed to get all the way to the top. I’m little so it’s easy for me, but it sounds like you’re a lot bigger than me.” A little giggle punctuated his response. He hoped it was received as well-intentioned.

“It’s not so steep on the south side,” Thistle brushed off, though he didn’t mind the praise and even the little laugh. It was endearing, though he tried not to focus on it too much. But he liked listening to the voice. Softer on his ears than freshly fallen snow, but warm like sunlight breaking flitting through leaves. 

“O-Oh? I-I’ve never been to the south. Is that where you came from?” Cowslip couldn’t imagine what sort of things a wandering billy had seen. Maybe he could get him to regal some stories.

Thistle grunted affirmatively. “There’s nothing out there, though.”

 _Oh,_ Cowslip thought. He hadn’t meant to make the stranger sad, but he heard the unmistakable grief muting his words. Perhaps it was his empathy, but something brought his sadness out into the open.

“There’s nothing here, either. A-A-At least, for me there isn’t. But I’m not old enough to be on my own yet.”

 _Definitely last summer’s pup,_ he reaffirmed. The pup continued, his soft voice wafting through the clouds the only proof of his existence.

“But I also don’t know where I would go. Or where I would wind up. I-I-I just know I have to go. I have to leave this place.”

Thistle rolled onto his back and stared up at the twinkling stars. “Sounds like you’ve got a case of starlust.”

“S-Starlust?” Cowslip tried very hard not to stumble over the word, but he resigned himself in defeat. Careful to make sure he would have enough room, he laid down and twisted onto his back. “I’ve never heard that word before.”

“A-A bobcat said to to me once.” He cleared his throat, irritated that the memory also caused the momentary relapse of his stutter. “It’s like wanderlust, except instead of the urge to travel, you want to escape. But since you don’t know what you’re running from, you don’t know if you’re going away from it or towards it. Because it's not a thing you’re running from, it's a feeling. And it's inside of you. It follows you wherever you go. So all you really want to do is dissolve into something as endless and sublime as the stars.”

“Wow. I . . . I never thought there was a word to describe that. E-E-Ever since my mother died there’s been this pang in my chest. And I don’t have anyone else, not really.”

Thistle’s breath caught in his throat. “Your mother died?” 

“Y-Yeah. L-Last summer, around this time. Luckily I’d already been weaned, o-otherwise I would’ve starved. It's . . It's kinda funny, actually. E-E-Ever since I was born, everyone was making bets as to when I would die.”

“What the fuck.”

“Y-Yeah. I-It was kinda a shitty place to grow up. I got through my first winter basically all on my own, though! S-So that’s why I don’t want to stay here. It's not a home for me.”

Thistle thought for a long time before he responded. Cursing his stutter, and the way his insides grated against each other, he opened up, despite everything he’d ever learned screaming at him to remain closed.

“My mother died w-w-w-when I was young, too. And then I—there was this—there were humans a-a-a-and they killed her and then they t-t-took—they took me to this _place_. I-I-I-It was so bright and dark at the same time. A-And I was hungry all the time. When I tried to fight, they took sticks and beat me. W-When I _slept_ for too long, or didn’t do what they wanted, they hit me with their sticks. E-E-E-Ex-Exc-Except when I was in the sand and there were big lights on me and the scent of humans all around me. They put dogs in there with me. A-A-And I couldn’t come out until they were all dead. T-T-That’s the only time they e-e-ever fed me.”

It was arduous. Going over the events, even after all these years, tore him open like it was happening all over again. If anything, it seemed the years made it harder to dredge up. Memories he’d stuffed down for so long, that he never wanted to revisit, suddenly rolled off his tongue like water.

Petrified he would miss something, Cowslip didn’t dare speak. 

And Thistle continued after he collected himself a bit.

“I got out.” His voice wasn’t nearly as distressed as it had been a moment ago. “But I-I still feel like I’m _there_ a-and no matter how far I go, I never stop feeling that way.”

There was a pause before Cowslip responded. Though it was only a voice, it was more stabilizing to Thistle than the rock beneath his back.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” He really, truly was. It panged his heart and made him ache all over. “And I don’t know what you can do to stop that feeling. If you’ve felt that way for longer than I have, t-then you’re probably closer to figuring it out than I am.”

Thistle lost track of counting the stars long ago. “I’ve crossed the same stretch of land over and over again. Wondering if maybe this time I would find something I missed last time. I think I’ve been looking for my mother, for peace of mind, in a place that can never give it to me. Because she’s gone, and the land is barren, and it can’t ever nurture me again.”

“Maybe you need to go s-someplace else. My mother told me: ‘If the rivers run dry something has happened that you cannot comprehend. And the waters will never flow and nourish you again. That’s when it’s time to leave.’” Cowslip spotted the constellations of the goat family. On one side of the sky stretched the brave Snapdragon, who embroiled horns and hooves with iron strength; on the other side was the nurturing Aster, who filled bellies with warm milk; and lastly, nestled in a field of stars, the vital Larkspur danced. It was said he was responsible for the misadventures of young kids, urging them to stray from their mother’s sides from his celestial abode. Many a cautionary tale had been told of Larkspur’s hijinks, warning kids the dangers of leaving the herd. 

A cluster of stars separated Snapdragon and Aster. They were pinned to opposite ends of the sky, with their offspring galloping across a starless gorge, fractioned from them. In a month’s time, the wolf constellation would be in full view as it stretched its paws towards the kid. 

“Your mother sounds smart,” said Thistle.

“Y-Yeah,” Cowslip sighed, “I miss her.”

“I miss my mom, too.” 

“You know, it's strange. I-I don’t think I’ve ever, you know, t-talked to someone about it.”

“Yeah,” Thistle scratched behind his ear, “now that I think about it, I haven’t either. And I’ve done lots of things,” Thistle snickered, “but this is the first time I’ve ever poured my heart out to a stranger. It’s kind of weird. But it's also kind of good.”

“Same for me,” Cowslip stretched out on the rock and cracked his joints, “I k-kinda feel like we know each other, though. E-Even though we just met.”

Thistle lolled on his side, more relaxed than he’d been in years. “Well, we both lost our mothers when we were young, and we’re both suffering from starlust. That makes us pretty much the same.”

Cowslip let out a yawn, “I-It does, doesn’t it?”

“You sound tired,” Thistle teased. 

“Y-Yeah. M-Maybe I should get going. I-I don’t want anyone to worry about me.” Cowslip stood up and pushed some feeling back into his legs. The descent was always harder than the ascent. But that wasn’t the reason he found himself not wanting to leave. 

“I should probably leave then, too. If I slept here I think I would roll right off the edge in my sleep.” Thistle shook some dust and pebbles out of his pelt. “You know, if you wanted, you could try the southern slope. It really is easier.”

“O-Oh, well thank you, but the northern slope is faster for me.” Cowslip replied, hopping back down from the slabs. The fog so thick it swallowed the scraping of his hooves against the rock. “B-But hey, t-tomorrow would you like to meet up? Maybe somewhere there isn’t so much fog?”

Thistle liked that idea very much. “Do you know where the lone tree is?”

“Y-Yeah. J-Just on the other side of the creek just at the beginning the crags towards the northwest, right?”

“Right. There’s never any fog there because it's not as high up. We could meet there when the sun is at its peak.”

“A-Alright,” Cowslip stopped when he reached the edge of the top, “b-but how will we know for sure who we are? We haven’t seen each other and we haven’t smelled each other either.”

Thistle hummed. “Good point. How about a code-word? Something like: ‘we met one starry night’?”

“Alright. When we meet, w-w-we’ll both say: ‘we met one starry night’,” Cowslip agreed. “W-Well, good night.”

“Safe travels. It’s hard to see up here. Don’t slip,” Thistle cautioned.

“Yeah, s-same goes for you,” said Cowslip as he began his trek down the cragface. 

In that fashion, under the watchful eye of the stars, two beasts left down opposite sides of the crag. Though they were tired, their spirits felt rejuvenated, and their feet barely registered their steps. They both curled up—Cowslip at the edge of his herd, Thistle on a bed of dry needles—warmer than they’d been in seasons. Sleep came easily that night, their dreams pleasant but sightless, filled with only the sound of the voice they’d heard through the fog that night.


	3. After Thistle roused from his sleep he stretched and groaned as each old joint loosened with a delightful pop.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First (Second) date. Get's a little gay.

After Thistle roused from his sleep he stretched and groaned as each old joint loosened with a delightful pop. Yawning, he cringed as his stomach gurgled. The winds had returned and with them, so did the promise of food. His mouth watered as he scented something small and pumping full of blood. The tart, earthy scent of a rabbit just emerged from its warren flitted in the breeze. Nostrils flaring and head raised, he determined the plump quarry was about three-hundred strides to his immediate north.

He had to amble that direction anyway to meet the stranger from last night. Licking his lips, an excited skip in his step belied his years. The promise of a hot, fatty meal aroused his muscles and invigorated his stride.

Spying through a thicket, he moved wide around the lone rabbit. His best bet was to sneak up behind the tasty morsel and close the distance enough that even the rabbit’s superior sprint wouldn’t save it. Being far smaller than Thistle, the rabbit could pivot into opposite directions faster and elude death.

Being without a pack his whole life prevented the old wolf from taking down larger, more typical wolf prey like deer or elk. While his mother was around, he watched her split open the hides of all assortments of small creatures. Although there was a time where she spotted a wolverine and changed direction. She told Thistle never to fuck with them, even if there were ten wolves at his side. Once, they crossed a creek where a herd of elk had paused at to drink and graze the lush greens along the bank. Unlike the other times, when these creatures saw his mother, they did not turn and flee. Instead they barred out low whistles and a few bucks rearranged themselves towards the exterior of the herd. They dug threateningly into the trodden soil, stomping and shaking their crown of winding antlers.

His mother put her head down and walked through the stream at a relaxed pace, watching them out of the corner of her eye, keeping herself between them and her pup. Flicking their ears, the bucks snorted and returned to grazing. It was the moment Thistle realized there was a limit to what his mother could achieve.

Alone, his mother was forced to hunt each day, often only being successful every other time. She had to kill many small meals to sustain them. A young squirrel who fell from the nest and broke its back; a spitting beaver she plucked from a dam; an entire family of field mice, once. The only hope Thistle ever had of tasting a large ungulate was if they stumbled across a corpse a pack of wolves had taken down in a surplus killing.

And so, following the guidance of his mother, Thistle became a master of the small game.

With a rabbit, there were few tricks one could employ. Thistle had actually learned the majority of them from a bobcat named Squeeze he’d been penned next to. Keep low to the ground was the first one. For Squeeze, who was a bit bigger than a house cat, that was fairly easy. The typical wolf method of following a quarry to exhaustion couldn’t be applied to a rabbit, who normally had a hiding place within bolting distance. The second wasn’t so much a trick as it was common sense. A rabbit moved erratically, but it was always in the direction of a burrow. They could weave side-to-side and escape fangs and claws into tunnels so deep and winding no wolf had hope of unearthing them. The killing window was incredibly brief.

Thistle moved to the edge of the thicket and waited for the rabbit. He crouched low and a trail of drool seeped from his jaws. Unaware of the danger creeping around, the rabbit munched happily on clover blossoms and chickweeds.

Placing one paw at a time, Thistle moved closer, the webbing of his pads muffling him almost completely.

Almost.

Suddenly the rabbit’s ear twitched and it froze. Thistle mirrored the action and tried not to breathe.

After a moment the rabbit returned to grazing, apparently considering the noise to be of no concern. Thistle breathed out slowly and took a few more cautious steps. His mouth salivated as he got closer, the unbridled, saturated scent of rabbit fur charging his nasal passage.

Thistle tensed onto his hind legs and covered a full meter in one bound. The rabbit snapped back and hesitated for a moment, body suddenly overwhelmed with adrenaline, pinning it to the spot. After only the briefest second the rabbit’s feet caught up with the chemicals flooding its veins and it bolted. Zig-zagging left and right, it scrambled across the prairie.

As Thistle closed the distance he sunk low, pressing his fangs almost to the ground, he anticipated the rabbit’s sporadic maneuvers. He pounced only a half a pace behind his quarry. Mouth unable to clamp down on the pulsing meal, Thistle knocked the rabbit over with one of his slender paws. Reeling and disoriented, the rabbit had almost righted itself when a set of iron jaws severed its neck from its body.

The tiny bones crunched under Thistle’s maw and hot blood gushed in his mouth and spilled into the grass. He made quick work of the lagomorph, snapping its ribs apart and consuming the small organs. He left the limbs, not willing to spend the time extracting what little marrow and sinew clung to the bones. Most of the fat deposits were on the rump, which he tore into thankfully. It was the toughest part but his fangs sliced through gristle like a metal trap. He used his front teeth to pry the remaining flesh away from the pelt. Fur of any animal never digested well and rabbit fur as perhaps the worst.

It wasn’t a great meal by any means but it was acceptable to a creature who had never known plenty. A few crows cawed overhead and Thistle trotted off. Crows and the other scavenging birds were one of the only constant companions he had. Where they flocked, Thistle could usually steal a meal. More than twice the excited cries of ravens had lured him to a rank corpse that brought him back from the brink of starvation.

Maybe if he had a territory he would have developed the habit of caching his leftovers. Instead, though, he roamed, and left what he could not consume to the birds as a thanks.

He left them to squabble over the eyes and toes in peace.

As he approached a shallow creek, gently trickling in a sparse wood, he gazed at his reflection and felt self-conscious.

Solitude had done little good for his coat. Without packmates to harangue him, his fur wound up only kept by himself, which left the hackles unruly and spiked. He dipped his head in, the cool water gently teasing the bloodstains from his snout.

Even after all these years, his grey pelt hadn’t lost any of its shine. His body was lean, with dense muscles and a thick, soft coat. Most of the scars he’d acquired in his youth had healed and the next winter’s coat filled in his bare spots.

With a shrug, Thistle rolled in the water, removing the dirt and needles that had embedded in his pelt while he slept. He didn’t really want to reek of a bramble patch or a rabbit. Not that the pup would really care but for whatever reason, remembering the little stuttering voice had his whiskers twitching nervously.

He sprung out of the water and gave his coat a great shake. Trotting over to the lone tree at an easy pace, he enjoyed the way the sun dried and warmed his pelt. He walked in the narrow gorges that separated the crags like veins from flesh.

The path he took had him approaching the tree from the southwest. Its trunk was thicker than a bear and it's roots crawled over the jagged rocks, spread out to take in as much water as possible in its remote home. Overhead it's branches wound and fanned out, shading the recess under its bounty of leaves. A light wind stirred from the northwest, flooding the air with the thick scent of pine and cold air from the black forest. A few clouds rolled over the sun but he could see well enough that it was almost midday.

As he advanced he saw a flash of brown fur disappear behind the gnarled tree and his tail gave a gentle wag.

Clearing his throat, he called out: “we met one starry night!”

A little giggle came from around the tree and suddenly a small, brown bundle of fur leapt onto a rock and echoed his greeting.

As their eyes met, confusion overtook both of their features. Thistle cocked his head to the side at the sight of the goat standing before him. He was small, the sun making his fur shine. He had two small horns and a pair of curling, white-tipped ears. He almost couldn’t believe this was the same creature he had spoken to last night—but it was. The voice was the same, including the stutter. Thistle would never forget that voice.

Cowslip thought he would freeze, but he did the opposite. The wolf was about twice his size and his pelt of grays and soft, gold eyes made him appear non-threatening—which was interesting, considering any other time the sight of a wolf would have sent him running. But this was definitely the one he had talked to last night. He felt just as relaxed as he had in his presence last night. Now, the closeness of the voice, emanting from the jaws of something that could break his neck—but was choosing not to—stirred a shiver in his body that spurred him to hop off the rock and approach the wolf.

He didn’t miss the way the canid’s tail moved side-to-side as he trotted forward. Though Cowslip has not well versed in wolfish expressions, he sensed and smelled only friendly intentions and thought the tail must be an indicator of good will.

Walking side by side, they turned away from the lone tree and set off towards the hills and steppes cradling the valley. They both sensed the awkwardness of their situation and couldn’t help but laugh. Thistle’s rough laughter and Cowslip’s honey-sweet giggles eased the tension between them and drew them closer, their gait falling in tandem, despite the difference in their leg sizes.

“Y-You know, I-I assumed you were a goat, even though I had no reason to. I mean I couldn’t even smell you, but that was the conclusion I came to. I guess I never thought wolves talked,” Cowslip smiled sheepishly.

Thistle grinned, showing his fangs, then abruptly closed his mouth as he saw the goat’s eyes flicker to the gleaming teeth. “Sorry,” he chuckled, trying to let his lips cover his teeth as much as possible, “and I suppose it never occurred to me that goats did anything other than eat grass and run. I thought you were a pup.”

“Well, I am a pup, I suppose. W-We’re called ‘kids’ when we’re young. I didn’t know young wolves were called ‘pups’. And we actually don’t eat that much grass,” Cowslip informed.

“No?”

Cowslip smiled, “no. We eat all sorts of stuff, like weeds and flowers and fruits.”

“Huh. You know, we eat grass sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, when we want to throw up.”

“Oh,” Cowslip grimaced.

Thistle snickered, “I didn’t mean it like that. Sometimes we get upset stomachs and the best cure is to eat enough grass to induce vomiting.”

“Hmm. What does grass taste like to you?”

Thistle hummed, “I guess it tastes sour. And the fluid inside is really bitter.”

Cowslip lead them up the slope of a hill and galloped a few paces ahead. The tall grass and feathered tips tickled his belly. In some places he disappeared completely into the stalks, leaping forward and being engulfed once again. Thistle thought it was very cute and chewed his lip.

Once out of the scrub, they ascended to the top of one of the steppes, where the grasses shortened into the tougher breeds and prickly weeds. Cowslip stopped and waited for his companion. Up here there were no flowers, at least, not during this time of year. Most of the rain trailed down the rugged slopes of the steppes and saturated the meadows below. No bees and insects buzzed around. The only sound was the grass swaying in the wind.

“Grass tastes pretty good to me. Although it really depends on what kind and what season. In the fall grass gets really dry and stale.” Cowslip frowned for a moment. “I guess your food never gets stale.”

Shrugging, Thistle tried to be as vague as possible, while still being truthful. “Well, sometimes I don’t get to eat the  . . . freshiest things. I don’t have a pack so I usually make do with scavenging.””

They started walking again, next to each other, completely at ease despite the topic of conversation. Cowslip lead them northward, toward the edge of the steppe, where he knew it sloped off in a narrow cliff for leaps downward, allowing one to expertly spy their surroundings.

“Have you ever, uh” Cowslip stammered.

“Eaten a goat?” finished Thistle.

Cowslip nodded..

Thistle’s ear twitched, “uh, y–yeah.”

They reached the edge and Cowslip laid down, letting his front hoofs dangle over the edge. Inhaling, he took in the breeze, closing his eyes in pleasure at the way the air cooled his lungs. Thistle hesitated for a moment and curled up next to the goat. He, too, let his paws hang over the edge. He wasn’t as interested in the breeze as he was in the steep drop just a bound away.

Thistle felt the goat’s eyes on him. He turned and startled for a moment, caught off-guard by the delicate brown eyes gazing up at him. Even laying down, he really was a lot taller than the kid.

“What . . do goats taste like?” Cowslip asked, without a hint of malice.

Considering this for a moment, Thistle thought back to the few times he’d actually eaten a goat. “They’re tender, I guess. But their organs uh—taste kinda, too sweet? Maybe it’s all that grass.” Thistle clicked his tongue. “And I’m not just saying this because you’re a goat, but I don’t really like eating them. Not to say you’re not worth eating—not that I’m thinking about eating you, uh—fuck.” Thistle buried his face under his paws.

Cowslip lightly laughed.

“No, no, I-I know what you mean. It was a weird question to ask. But a goat and a wolf talking is pretty weird, too.”

Thistle huffed and scratched behind his ear. “I just realized, I don’t even know your name. Which is pretty weird, too.”

Cowslip nodded, “yeah. We spent that whole time talking last night and now we haven’t even introduced ourselves properly. M-My name is Cowslip. My mother named me after her favorite flower.”

Thistle lifted the corner of his lip, “that name suits you. It’s soft. My name’s Thistle. My mom named me after the thing she gave birth to me in.”

“I love thistles. They’re prickly but if you try hard enough, you can tease out the sweet parts.”

The wolf’s tail thumped on the ground beside him. “I’ve never eaten a thistle before.”

“Well, if grass makes you throw up, I don’t know what a thistle would do to you.” Cowslip watched the tail. “What does that mean? I’ve never been this close to a wolf before.”

“Probably for good reason,” Thistle grinned, “it’s uh, an autonomic reflex. It happens when we’re happy.”

“That’s so cute!” gushed Cowslip, loving the way his companion groaned in embarrassment. “When my species is happy our ears perk forward and our tails lift—though my ears don’t really move that obviously, and our tails are kind of small. I uh, I-I-I like your coat, also. A lot. It looks really soft.”

Thistle stopped breathing for a second. “Do you . . . want to touch it?”

Cowslip’s eyes darted around as he stutter out an affirmative. Crawling on his belly, Thistle pressed himself almost against the young goat. Putting his head on his paws, he relaxed his ears and granted Cowslip the freedom to nuzzle his coat.

A bit nervous, Cowslip pressed his nose against the cheek fur. The instant he came in contact with the soft hairs, the sharp, spicy musk gently rolling off the wolf filled his nostrils and evaporated his worry. Pushing his snout against the ears, Cowslip had to get up in order to keep on wiggling his nose against the fur. Eventually he moved one leg on the other side of Thistle to balance himself as he dipped down and buried his face in the fluffy flank.

“That’s not even the softest part,” Thistle breathed.

Cowslip tried to look innocent. “No?”

Thistle flashed his teeth and rolled onto his back. He knocked the goat’s foot out from under him and sent him into his curved rib cage. The weight atop him wasn’t as heavy as he thought it would have been. The kid weighed about as much as a fawn.

Shifting his paws, he cradled the goat so he wouldn’t slip off. Cowslip sighed and buried himself in underbelly fur. It really was softer than the coarser saddle hairs. Letting himself relax into the wolf beneath him, he pressed his ear against the chest, concentrating on the pounding beneath.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast.”

Thistle chuckled and brought his rough paw pads to the goat’s hindquarters. “Yours is too. I can feel it in my bones.” He tucked his ears back. “You smell really good. Like a meadow filled with apple trees.”

Hiding his face in the fur, Cowslip’s words were muffled, but Thistle’s perceptive ears caught it. “Y-Y-Y-You smell g-good, too.”

Gently, Thistle leaned his snout forward and touched his nose to Cowslip’s nose, then to one of the little ears. He stopped when the goat between his paws let out a little laugh.

“M-My ears are ticklish.”

“ _Oh, are they?_ ” Thistle rumbled. Blowing onto the appendage made Cowslip squirm. With the closest thing to a smirk a wolf could express, Thistle gave a little nip and growled at the moan he drew from the goat.

“I didn’t know goats made that sound,” Thistle teased.

“I-I-I didn’t either,” replied Cowslip. The musk enveloping him made his stomach flutter.

Overhead, a crow swooped low and cawed: “playing with your food? Hurry up so I can eat.”

Thistle barred his fangs at the black mass circling them.

“Fuck off, bird,” Thistle barked, “find a fox to annoy.”

The crow gave a few unhappy caws and flew off.

“M-Maybe we should go someplace else?” Cowslip suggested. “I’m actually k-kinda hungry.”

Thistle grunted in response and rolled to the side. Thistle followed Cowslip down one of the gentler sides of the steppe and into a grove. Cowslip found himself a blackberry bush and navigated around the thorns to pry fruits and leaves off. He’d memorized the location. It was one of the best spots, but he had to eat the ripe ones fast before deer found them.

Thistle sat down and watched him, ignoring the squirrels that had been foraging and now squeaked angrily at him from high up in the trees.

“Also,” Cowslip turned to him, mouth stained purple, “I w-was hoping you could help me with something.”

Thistle agreed and followed Cowslip further into the grove. They stopped beneath an ash tree. Cowslip turned around and looked longingly at the leaves.

“Goats can climb pretty much anything, including trees. I can’t reach that lowest branch there, b-but I think if I jump on your back I’ll be able to. T-that is, if you’re alright with me standing on you.”

Thistle complied and allowed the little goat the freedom to clamor onto his back. His hooves felt like lead against his pelt, but the weight behind them was nothing. He observed Cowslip balancing on the branches, prying the leaves of their homes. He finished off two limbs before his his hunger was sated.

Peering down, Cowslip realized getting down might be a little harder than the ascent. He didn’t want to drop on the old wolf’s back, so he turned and attempted to make his way down by just landing on the forest floor beneath. His dewclaws slowed his descent and he landed expertly beside his new friend.

Thistle, impressed with the kid’s maneuverability, and relieved he didn’t topple over himself, nudged behind his ears and bumped the little goat affectionately.

“Can I show you a place?” Thistle asked. “It’s a little ways out, but we could go there today or tomorrow even.”

“Tomorrow?” Cowslip giggled.

“Yeah, uh,” he felt awkward, “I assumed we could um, do this again.”

The kid nodded, “of course. L-Let’s do it now.”

“You don’t have to get back to your herd?”

Cowslip shook his head. “No. They probably haven’t even noticed I’m gone.”

“Good,” Thistle shook his flank and his tail waved happily, “I wouldn’t want today to end just yet.” They started out of the grove and Thistle lead them westward.

“Me neither.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess my hiatus is over.


End file.
